


Who Believes in Sherlock Holmes?

by GwendolynnFiction



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2018-12-23 01:39:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11979399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwendolynnFiction/pseuds/GwendolynnFiction
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is James Moriarty. Or perhaps it should be said, James is Sherlock Holmes. He's had the alias for so long, it's hard to decide which name is real.He puts on the mantle of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, every time he needs to lead Scotland Yard around by the nose. But he has a problem now, a mole in his organization that's trying to bring him down, and he needs to recruit a bodyguard: a doctor, preferably, and a very good sharpshooter.Which means 'Sherlock Holmes' is about to take on a flatmate: John Watson, an honorable man who must never know he's been recruited by anything but.What James Moriarty doesn't know, however, is that his mole got to John Watson first, and the closer he allows John to get, the sooner his downfall.A love story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has required two post-it walls detailing the chronology of every scene of the first two seasons of Sherlock. 
> 
> So if we see on the show that person A's corpse has been on riverbank for two days and Sherlock's deduction of John is that he was out late with Stamford the night before, the wall would have "Day 36 - Person A Dies" "Day 36 - Person A corpse on Riverbank *died there?*" "Day 37 Night - John out late with Stamford" "Day 38 - Sherlock and John find Person A corpse on riverbank" 
> 
> If these post-its would be valuable for your fanwork, reply to this chapter or email me at contact@fanficrecs.com and I'll take pictures! If there's enough interest, I'll upload them onto a free post-it software and put a link here. Happy writing, everybody!
> 
> Best,  
> Gwen

It was a daft move to open one of Aunt Laurie's email attachments, even if she did occasionally send e-cards full of family pictures and unwarranted financial advice just to get people trusting her again. As soon as his video player opened John braced himself for another video of her cat's distended anus. The video opened on the shaky footage of a light-haired young man racing down the street, pulling on his backpack as he ran. The video was silent, but the lad looked behind himself for a moment, his eyes wide with fear and his mouth open in a shout. John propped his chin on his hand, expecting a man in an inflatable T-Rex suit to run into the frame.

Instead the young man's body jerked and John gaped, watching him crumple to the ground.

"Jesus," John whispered, moving his fingers to cover his mouth. He'd seen people shot too many times before not to recognize the way the man's body had jolted. The camera backed up, swinging to face a brick wall for a moment before peeking around it again, tilted at a bad angle. A tall dark-haired man sharply dressed in a purple button-down shirt strode confidently toward the unmoving, laid-out body. There was a gun in his hand, held at his side. John set his jaw, readying himself for the inevitable. The assailant lifted the boy's backpack with one hand, his expression calculating as he shoved a finger through the hole in the strap his bullet had made. Blood seeped out from beneath the lad's body and ran along a crack in the blacktop toward the thin man's shoes. He stepped back carefully and shot the boy through his skull.

"Jesus."

The video slipped back behind the brick wall and stopped on a page filled with bolded text.

**The man before you is a self-described 'consulting criminal'. Criminals pay him to ensure they'll never be caught. He has infiltrated every level of the British government, using extortion, bribery, blackmail, and violence to protect his clients. His name is James Moriarty. He will be impossible to convict without overwhelming physical evidence and personal testimony. For that we need your help, Doctor Watson, for Mr. James Moriarty is about to recruit you.**

 

That wasn't a prank. And it wasn't Aunt Laurie. John read the note again, breathing through his fingers.

_What the hell would he recruit me for?_

John glared at his knee, wondering what Ella would say if he told her his first thought upon being emailed murder footage was to be pissed he'd be useless to the 'consulting criminal' executioner. He restarted the video, but he couldn't find any reason to doubt; he'd just watched an authentic murder.

 _This can't be good for my shellshock,_ he thought, rewatching it again, his heart racing. The email was blank, the subject line empty, and John couldn't risk Laurie seeing that video by replying to her hacked account.

But someone was trying to get him scared. Well. They could congratulate themselves; he'd been scared. John shoved his laptop back on the tiny bedsit desk. He'd been discharged from the 256 Field Hospital in London almost two weeks before and Harry was finally driving down to visit. Judging by the delay, she didn't have much in her life to brag about. Trouble with Clara or drinking or both, John predicted, though he doubted she'd tell him the truth about either. He hadn't had a phone since it'd been crushed in Komaar so he hadn't gotten any news from her in more than a year. Perhaps it would be better now. He'd tell her about being lonely; that'd get her off his back about never opening up.

There were things about war you didn't tell civilians. Children you'd watched your friends shoot because they'd run for your truck, hiding a bomb under their shirt and grinning at you like they were expecting to make a new best friend. He wasn't going to _open up_ and make his sister imagine him sewing a little boy's intestines back together next to a petri dish of shrapnel _._

Regardless, there was more in his life to fear than a video of a murderer he'd never meet.

~~//~~

 

_Christ._

John kept his eyes on the bland drop-ceiling and benignly familiar metal cabinets of a laboratory he'd entered a hundred times before, avoiding the murderer he'd just glimpsed peering into a microscope on the opposite side of the room. He had to look calm, collected, like he knew nothing at all of a tall dark-haired man named James Moriarty.

_This was no accident._

_Mike expects me to talk._

“Well. Bit different from my day,” John commented senselessly. Not even the dish rack had changed locations from ten years before. Mike scoffed.

“Oh, you've no idea,” he replied, his voice heavy with some second meaning. John glanced at the murderer not six feet from them, but Mike didn't follow his gaze at all.

_Do you know who this man is?_

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine,” Moriarty asked. So he knew Mike. Or, if 'Aunt Laurie' were correct, he'd gotten to know Mike in order to be introduced to John. Remarkably effectively.

_Why me?_

“And what's wrong with the landline?” Mike asked.

“I prefer to text,” Moriarty answered.

_I watched you kill a man._

“Sorry, it's in my coat,” Mike replied. He walked around the lab table to stand across from the executioner, not looking concerned in the least. And Mike had never been a brave man. He didn't know. But at least he'd handed John a decent chance of reading one of the consulting criminal's texts.

“Uh, here, use mine,” John offered, pulling his phone from his jacket pocket. Moriarty looked up from his glass beakers to watch him for a moment, not looking particularly surprised at the offer.

 _Was that what he planned from the start? Did he know Mike didn't have his mobile?_ John wondered, struck for a second by Moriarty's self-pleased expression.

“Oh, thank you,” Moriarty said lightly, getting up from his stool to approach him.

“This is an old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike said and John handed his phone over to the man he'd seen shoot someone more callously than any soldier in his regiment.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Moriarty asked as if he'd read his mind. John tilted his head, trying to keep up. Wasn't this man supposed to have just met him, on accident, with no prior knowledge of his existence?

“Sorry?”

“Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?” the man insisted. John shifted uncomfortably. Mike just looked smug, though about what John couldn't fathom.

“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know...” John started and the door behind him squeaked open.

“Ah! Molly! Coffee, thank you,” Moriarty greeted happily. John listened to the click of hard heels pass behind him. “What happened to the lipstick?” John concentrated on not turning around, as Ella had insisted. He had to learn to trust again, she'd ordered. Small steps, small safe challenges.

“It wasn't working for me,” the woman replied, her voice wavering. She sounded young. And nervous.

“Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now,” Moriarty replied, walking back into John's view with coffee held in his right hand.

“Okay,” the girl squeaked and finally left the room again. John relaxed gratefully, aware he felt far more comfortable with a murderer facing him than with an innocent woman at his heels.

“Sorry, what?” John asked, realizing the 'consulting criminal' had spoken while he'd been focused on Ella's stupid challenge.

“I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?” Moriarty asked, turning away from his work to meet John's eyes again. Assessing him. “Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

Moriarty smiled then, amused by his own secret joke, and John held his gaze, feeling like he'd just been handed battle coordinates.

 _ **Mr. James Moriarty is going to recruit you.**_ 'Aunt Laurie' was right again.

Just ten minutes earlier John had told Mike he needed a place to stay and a flatmate who'd put up with him – and his university lab partner had promptly led him to James Moriarty, _who'd already mentioned it._ Whatever it was this 'consulting criminal' did, he was terrifyingly good at it.

“You told him about me?” John asked, just to confirm.

“Not a word,” Mike promised, beaming. Proud of his connection to such a phenomenal man, John guessed. He didn't blame him. Mike had always been a bit of a sycophant, even for just particularly intimidating professors.

“Then who said anything about flatmates?” John asked, unsettled.

“I did. I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap,” Moriarty explained, pulling on his coat and scarf.

_How did you get both of us into Russell Square Gardens to meet?_

“How did you know about Afghanistan?” John asked, because _that_ little moment still made no sense if this was truly a consulting criminal pretending to meet him on accident.

“Got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it We'll meet there tomorrow evening. Seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary,” Moriarty ordered and without further introduction started for the exit.

“Is that it?” John called out to stop him, annoyed. Moriarty paused, stiffening.

“Is that what?” he asked, shoving his hands into his coat as he pulled away from the laboratory door. His voice was sharper now, almost angry. He was skilled at sounding dangerous. He stalked toward John, his presence looming. John stood his ground.

_Is that your plan? Intimidate me into room-sharing with you?_

“We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat?” John demanded. He never could avoid prodding arseholes, Harry said. Moriarty glanced at Mike for a moment, looking surprised. Mike shrugged easily.

“Problem?” Moriarty bit out, turning back to John.

“We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name,” John complained.

_I know you shot a man._

“I know you're an army doctor. And you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid,” the man listed.

James Moriarty had researched him. By all appearances, in order to move in with him.

_Why?_

“That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?” the consulting criminal asked smugly. He swung out of the room, looking quite pleased with himself. John had barely started to relax when the door jerked open again and Moriarty leaned back into the room. “The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street.” With a wink at John, he disappeared back out of the room.

 

 _Sherlock Holmes._ That was certainly different from 'James Moriarty'. But then, John could hardly expect a man responsible for a criminal network to live outside an alias.

John turned to Mike, trying to discern if the man had any idea who he'd just introduced him to. Mike smiled and nodded happily.

“Yeah, he's always like that,” he gloated, evidently pleased to show off his acquaintance's eccentricities.

 _That man extorts, blackmails, and kills people._ According to 'Aunt Laurie' anyway – and she'd been right so far.

“Fun, isn't he?” Mike beamed.

“Fun,” John replied, rolling the word around his teeth. He was becoming remarkably willing to take 'Aunt Laurie' at her word; one of the worst criminals of his time had just handed him a home address.

_He will be impossible to convict without overwhelming physical evidence and personal testimony. For that we need your help, Doctor Watson._

Oh, hell, but he was an idiot.

 

John went home that night, such as it was. He lived out of his army bag and a milk crate in the cheapest bedsit he could find that wouldn't make him share. He wouldn't risk anyone in punching distance when he woke up but he hated coming in like this, throwing his coat on a desk chair in a dark room and trying to decide which take-away he'd order when he couldn't afford anything but fast-food and Chinese.

That was one appealing part of letting a room with Mr. 'Sherlock Holmes'. Of anyone in the world to kill on accident in a flashback, Mr. James Moriarty was probably in the top-ten best candidates. The fastest way to a safer London was probably a single bullet through the skull of 'Mr. Sherlock Holmes', and John knew he wouldn't kill him on purpose. He wasn't an executioner. Justice required a trial, and a trial required hard evidence. He knew nothing of the specifics of Mr. Moriarty's crimes that an anonymous email hacker hadn't sent him.

John sighed, rubbing at the ache in his leg. He didn't dare google the name 'Moriarty'. If 'Aunt Laurie' were even close to correct John had no doubt he'd be a corpse in a week if anyone learned he knew that name and the face that went with it.

Why, exactly, he knew the name and the face that went with it, he couldn't fathom. He wasn't a criminal and he wasn't a detective. But it didn't take a genius to know that it wasn't a coincidence that he'd met James Moriarty in that laboratory. Someone had handed him Moriarty's information, someone who had a way to know who the criminal was likely to recruit. No friend of Moriarty's, to be sure. Which meant that somewhere in the world, John had an ally.

Ironically enough, 'Sherlock Holmes' _was_ a detective. Or...something like a detective. A private investigator, maybe. John found his website, its pinned article _'The Science of Deduction' or How to identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb_. That sounded like Grade A bullshit, but it was Grade A bullshit copyrighted under 'Sherlock Holmes'. Far more unsettling was the information he found in the next search results. Birthdate: January 6 th, 1981. A home address someplace in Sussex, listed and viewable on google maps. A few photographs and a blisteringly rude interview with The Daily Mail published four years before. A birth certificate and a criminal conviction for breaking and entering that had been reduced to a misdemeanor. By all results Sherlock Holmes was an entirely existent man. How could anyone make an alias like this? Surely a court conviction required verifiable identification?

Or was it not an alias at all – was 'Sherlock Holmes' the man's true birth name and James Moriarty the fraud? He'd have to try to find that birth certificate.

John knew that if he was smart, he'd walk away now. He knew that. He wouldn't have his chest wound if he were smart. John shut his laptop and dug out Harry's phone for the messages the man had sent from it.

He didn't expect to find it, left undeleted for the world to see.

**:If brother has green ladder arrest brother:**

An arrest order? Did he have connections in the police force? That sounded likely. And if John could afford it, he was moving in with this criminal to bring him down from the inside. John snapped his phone shut and lay back down on his cot. He was excited to begin. God he was an idiot.

 


	2. Chapter 2

He expected Moriarty would arrive first to avoid allowing a stranger a chance at his home unsupervised, but by all evidence John was alone. No one called out or opened the door at his knock and he was left standing in front of the blue door unsupervised. He turned to inspect the quaint, well-trafficked street behind him only to spot his quarry getting out of a cab.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” John greeted, trying to keep any mocking of the fake name out of his voice.

_It might be real. You don't know._

“Sherlock, please,” the man replied smoothly and held out his hand. His grip was soft and casual and John responded likewise.

“Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive,” he commented, wondering if they were waiting for an estate agent to open the door for them.

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's given me a special deal. Owes me a favour,” Moriarty replied, pulling his hands behind his back.

_Of course she does,_ John thought, deciding he was definitely _not_ going to ask just as Sherlock began to answer.

“Few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out,” he said, his eyes scanning the streets behind John's back, looking concerned about something. John forced himself not to turn.

“Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?” John asked, playing along, but Moriarty's sharp eyes snapped back to him.

“Oh, no, I ensured it,” he admitted brazenly. John didn't need to fake his surprise. He'd expected 'Sherlock Holmes' to be the perfect detective: kind-hearted, well-meaning, and artificially brilliant. If this was Moriarty's alias, it wasn't made to be above suspicion. Sherlock smiled easily, as if every man should be proud of sending another to death and the complicit widow opened the door.

“Sherlock, hello,” the landlord greeted warmly, talking more like a grandmother to a beloved grandson than a murderer to her co-conspirator. But then, John figured, he had no idea what the average murderer sounded like greeting anyone.

Mrs. Hudson was a short, entirely frumpy woman, likely in her sixties, who kept her hair tightly cut around her head in a brown blob and wore a perfectly matching purple skirt, blouse, and leggings that turned into a kind of violet onesie. She greeted Moriarty with a hug and John with a soft handshake.

“Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson,” Sherlock presented, sounding rather proud for a man who'd supposedly met him at random the day before.

_Probably not just taking me here to shoot me then,_ John thought. Mrs. Hudson greeted him politely and welcomed them inside and Sherlock immediately dashed up the stairs, pausing at the landing to watch John slowly hobble up after him.

_Second floor. Not ideal,_ John thought, though the area was great. He snorted to himself; as if a flat's walking score was likely to change his mind about living with a crime boss. Sherlock opened the flat's unlocked door ahead of Mrs. Hudson and strode comfortably inside, rather breaking the illusion that he'd only just 'had his eye' on the place. John followed him.

The flat was not as polished as John expected from an internationally known criminal, but it was well-lit and maintained. He'd been prepared to step into a well-furnished, self-aggrandizing penthouse, but 221B looked like a home, strewn with boxes, books, and debris and very ill-wallpapered. “Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed,” John commented.

“Yes, yes I think so. My thoughts precisely,” Moriarty replied, spinning to inspect the room as if for the first time.

“Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out-” John stopped, hearing too late Moriarty's simultaneous confession 'so I went straight ahead and moved in'. John hesitated awkwardly, only too aware that he'd just insulted one of the more dangerous men in his country – and Moriarty did look remarkably affected, turning around in the little room and rushing to collect some of the unopened letters scattered about.

“Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit,” he said, stabbing a leatherman knife through the envelopes straight into his mantle piece. The effort had the opposite of its intended effect, for it was only then that John noticed the human skull propped there; and there was no fooling John – it was real. What the hell kind of alias lived with a human skull and one of his conspirators? _Why go with a fake name at all,_ John wanted to ask, but settled with a more generic commentary. He pointed his cane at the mantlepiece.

“That's a skull.”

Sherlock barely glanced at it.

“Friend of mine. Well, when I say 'friend',” he tilted his head back and forth, weighing a different word choice, but didn't elaborate. Right.

The landlady picked up a cup and saucer from the coffee table while Sherlock stripped off his greatcoat, not even making a farce of signing a lease agreement.

“What do you think then, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be _needing_ two bedrooms.”

John blinked rapidly, absorbing that. Well, that was more information about James Moriarty than he'd expected to get in one day. He didn't need to be giving out that much in return, however. John shifted uncomfortably, wondering why, exactly, Moriarty had arranged for John to be standing in his living room.

“Of course we'll be needing two,” he growled.

“Oh, don't worry; there's all sorts round here,” she said, glancing between them. “Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones,” she whispered. John turned to Moriarty, hoping he would help him dissuade the woman, but the man said nothing, choosing to watch them both instead.

_Right._ Well, that was awkward.

“Oh, Sherlock, the mess you've made!” Mrs. Hudson tutted, sounding like a mother again. She began tidying up the kitchen and John became aware of how long he'd been leaning on his leg, just before a twinge through his knee sent a more motivating reminder. If he was going to be an idiot and move in with a man who was probably a mob boss, he might as well sit down for it. Sherlock was shoving piles around on his desk, still trying to neaten up.

“I looked you up on the internet last night,” John commented, wondering if Moriarty would be threatened by such an invasion. Instead, the man looked thrilled. Confident about his alias, maybe. Or perhaps just acting well.

“Anything interesting?” he asked.

“Found your website, 'The Science of Deduction',” John started.

“What did you think?” Moriarty asked, smiling brightly.

“You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb,” John prompted and his doubt crept into his tone. Moriarty instantly deflated.

“Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and your leg and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone,” he listed, sounding defensive now.

_You looked me up,_ John thought, annoyed, and focused on looking unaffected.

“How?” he asked instead. Moriarty smiled and turned away, right before Mrs. Hudson came out of the kitchen with a newspaper in front of her nose.

_Unwilling to lie in front of her?_ John wondered. There certainly seemed to be a relationship between them. And Moriarty had trusted her enough to go in for a hug.

“What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same,” she said, like she was offering them up for sale.

_That was incredibly disturbing,_ John thought.

“Four,” Moriarty corrected, looking down at the street outside the window.

_That was worse._

“There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time,” the criminal announced, keeping his eyes glued to the window.

John had been reading about almost nothing but the suicides since he'd gotten back. They were on the front page of every paper. A range of ages, lifestyles, religions, neighborhoods – only two things in common : an unusual toxin and the fact that none of them had shown any inclination to suicide.

Someone was trotting up the stairs. John stayed seated, fiddling with his cane and wondering if Moriarty would let him see much more of his life than he already had. It wasn't clear what use James Moriarty had for him. They'd be more then flatmates, surely. The man that trotted up the steps made John's heart sink into his stomach. A detective inspector, badge and all, walked comfortably into Moriarty's domain without any sign of concern.

“Where?” Moriarty asked without preamble.

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens,” the cop replied immediately, evidently accustomed to such demands.

“What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different.”

John swallowed uncomfortably, unsure what precisely he was witnessing.

“You know how they never leave notes?” the cop asked.

“Yeah.”

“This one did. Will you come?” The cop was practically begging. For a career criminal to help with a murder?

“Who's on forensics?”

“Anderson,” the cop answered apologetically. A shared acquaintance; whatever they were doing, they'd done it before. Worked on a crime scene? What did they do there? Were they covering them up? That sounded like an easy task for a detective inspector and the bastard that'd designed the crime in the first place.

“I need an assistant,” Moriarty said and for a moment John expected the man to turn and use the boorishly orchestrated scene to rope him in, but instead the criminal agreed to follow the detective and gestured him out. As soon as they heard the front door close, Moriarty was leaping in the air in unadulterated joy and crowing triumphantly.

“Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas,” he celebrated, picking up his scarf and coat and heading for the small kitchen off the side of the living room.

_Hello there, Mr. Moriarty,_ John thought, watching the criminal rush about and order food from his housekeeper.

“Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!” He grabbed a small leather pouch from the kitchen table and exited the flat with a flourish, leaving John in the very odd position of sitting in a stranger's home having apparently just moved in.

And his 'landlady' was making him tea and chatting.

“Look at him, dashing about! My husband was just the same.”

John grimaced, wondering what, precisely, had happened to him.

“But you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell,” she said.

_I was a Fifth Northumberland Fusilier unit sharpshooter and field medic on my second tour one month ago,_ John wanted to growl but set his jaw.

“I'll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg,” she cooed.

“Damn my leg!” John barked, only to curse himself immediately. He was both in her home and James Moriarty's flat; either one wasn't a good place to be shouting at anyone. Nor did she really deserve it anyway. “Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing...” he hit his leg with his cane, hating how the knee didn't even twitch at the blow.

_Psychosomatic._ Damn it all.

“I understand, dear; I've got a hip,” she said kindly.

_Who are you to James Moriarty?_

“Cup of tea'd be lovely, thank you,” he experimented.

“Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper,” she agreed.

_I didn't even sign a lease. I didn't even agree to move in,_ John thought, but decided not to protest. Apparently he was in.

“Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'um,” John added.

“Not your housekeeper!” she called back but she moved to comply. John picked up the newspaper the landlady had dropped and started skimming through the article on Moriarty's three – now four - suicides. The cop that had visited was featured; Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, in charge of the case. John flipped through to the back article on the man and had only just folded the paper back when the living door burst open and Moriarty pushed inside.

“You're a doctor. In fact you're an Army doctor,” he prompted, a bit out of breath.

“Yes,” John said. He got to his feet, suspecting that this was in fact a farce to get him involved after all. Just a better one than he'd thought.

“Any good?” Moriarty asked.

_I'm a better shot,_ John thought. Better not to emphasize that.

_What do you want with me?_

“Very good,” John said honestly. Moriarty nodded comfortably. He didn't seem a man to mince words for false modesty.

“Seen a lot of injuries, then? Violent deaths.”

_Where is this going?_ He had a feeling he was about to finalize his involvement in something dangerous and stupid. His heart was pounding.

“Mmm, yes.”

“Bit of trouble too, I bet,” Moriarty probed. Was that was he called warfare? 'A bit of trouble'?

“Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much.” That was supposed to be true. Moriarty didn't even hesitate.

“Wanna see some more?” he asked. An invitation, to who knew what.

“Oh god, yes.” John blurted, only to draw back. He worried too much fervor had seeped into his voice but Moriarty's eyes lit up in shared enthusiasm and he spun on his heel to lead John back down the stairs.

_I'm not supposed to enjoy this._ But his heart was beating in his chest, for what felt like the first time in a month, and he felt safe with his gun at the small of his back.

“Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I'll skip the tea, off out,” John called out as he descended.

“Both of you?” she asked, appearing at the bottom of the stairs. Her flat had to be there, then. Moriarty turned and walked toward her, his eyes blazing.

“Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something _fun_ going on!” he proclaimed, taking her by the shoulders and kissing her noisily on the cheek.

Pure glee, at the most inappropriate things. It was captivating. He could understand why Mrs. Hudson was smiling affectionately.

“Look at you, all happy. It's not decent,” she said.

“Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!”

_And I'm going to beat you,_ John thought, following him out to the cab.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time they'd gotten past Hyde ParkJohn was certain Moriarty had access to his military file, medical records, therapist's notes - thank god he'd never given the woman more than two words of greeting and meaningless blather about the weather - and family history. Given his "deductions" about Harry, he'd either found her drink driving convictions or she'd finally gotten herself to rehab. He'd have to call her. She'd arrived hungover to his hospital room fifteen minutes before the end of visiting hours three weeks ago, so he doubted it. But it would be good to try.

Breathtaking. All those little lies, so carefully woven, and he could see where Moriarty saw the weakness in his own deductive spiel, where he'd interrupted himself _'there, you see, you were right'._ And John could almost believe 'Sherlock Holmes' had come up with it all on the spot, standing there with him in Bart's laboratory. Lying or not, this James Moriarty was phenomenal. He hadn't had to lie to tell him that.

“Did I get anything wrong?” Moriarty asked while John was painfully extricating himself from the cab. He sounded genuinely curious, a break from the past hour's unfettered arrogance.

“Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce and Harry is a drinker,” John summarized honestly as the cab car peeled away, leaving them deposited in what looked like a very industrial suburb of London. To his incredible relief, the dead-end road was flashing with cop cars. Not a good place to go quietly shoot a new flatmate.

“Spot on then. I didn't expect to be right about everything,” he boasted and John had to keep himself from snorting. So he very much enjoyed informing the fraud that Harry was short for _Harriet_ \- even if the man had made the mistake on purpose _._ Moriarty stopped dead in his tracks, leaving John to walk toward the cops and caution tape alone. This close, at least, John could deduce where they were headed.

“Harry's your sister,” Moriarty bit out, sounding about ready to shoot someone.

“Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?” John asked, waiting for Moriarty to catch up with him.

“ _Sister!_ ” James hissed. John glanced back at him, trying to assess if the man was faking now or if he'd truly gotten something wrong. He couldn't tell; how could he? He'd never met the man _not_ lying.

“No, seriously, what am I doing here” he protested, but he was interrupted by the cheerful call of a cop guarding the crime scene tape in front of them.

“Hello, freak!” she called and John's heart sank. Another friend in the force? How infiltrated had Scotland Yard become? John didn't have a plan except 'give damning evidence to the police' - what would it mean if the police would immediately look the other way while Moriarty shot him?

“I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Moriarty announced formally.

“Why?” the cop asked, facing off with him. John frowned, seeing James shift with frustration.

“I was invited,” he replied politely.

“Why?” she repeated, though she clearly knew the answer.

_So, not a friend?_

“I think he wants me to take a look,” James spelled out, visibly annoyed now.

“Well, you know what I think, don't you?” she growled.

“Always, Sally,” Moriarty replied, ducking beneath the crime tape and making a show of smelling the air near her. “I even know you didn't make it home last night,” he added threateningly. John moved to put himself between them as subtly as he could, but the cop stepped away from them defensively.

“I don't...who's he?” she demanded.

_A new ally,_ John thought, trying to conceal his relief. He'd found a good cop; he was sure of it.

“Colleague of mine, Dr. Watson. Dr. Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend,” James introduced, somehow making the words 'old friend' sound like an insult.

“A colleague? How do _you_ get a colleague?” she asked. “What, did he follow you home?” she turned to ask John. John shifted away from her. _Far too soon,_ his instincts screamed at him. He could not have allies yet.

“Would it be better if I just waited -” John suggested, beginning to move away but James lifted the police tape with authority.

“No,” he ordered and Sally Donovan pulled out her radio to announce them. Moriarty made a show of checking out the street and neighborhood as they approached the tenement building currently surrounded by tape and police vehicles. A man stormed out of the building's front door, ripping off his gloves and bundling them in his hand as he walked. A rather disgusting gesture, John thought. If the man's scrubs were to be believed, he was a forensic scientist and he'd just wrapped his bare hands around whatever human detritus had been on his gloves.

“Ah, Anderson. Here we are again,” James announced, confirming John's suspicions. The man worked forensics.

“It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?” the man demanded, stepping close enough to Moriarty that his enunciation was likely sending spittle into the criminal's eyes.

_Would anyone ever find him, if Moriarty decided to have him killed?”_ John wondered, nervous.

“Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?” James asked, softly raising his eyebrows.

“Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that,” Anderson scoffed.

“Your deodorant told me that,” James replied and John had to struggle to keep a straight face. He didn't know if the man's deodorant 'said' anything, but he could definitely smell it from a stride away.

“My deodorant?” the man asked dumbly. John was grateful. He'd enjoyed Moriarty's last flurry of 'deductions', real or not.

“It's for men,” James replied smugly.

“Well of course it's for men, I'm wearing it,” Anderson sputtered.

“So's Sergeant Donovan,” Moriarty replied and John failed to keep back a smirk. He'd been handed two cops that were certainly _not_ working with the man. That was good. Even if they were idiots – Anderson anyway. “Ooh, I think it just vaporized. May I go in?” James mocked, reverting to his falsely polite veneer.

“Whatever you're trying to imply...” Anderson started, sounding desperately nervous now. Moriarty walked past him unconcerned.

“I'm not implying anything. I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat and just happened to stay over,” he said, striding past the rather resigned-looking woman. He turned back before he got to the tenement building door, as if that hadn't been quite sufficient. “And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees,” he added brutally, glancing down at her pants and smirking before making his way inside.

John walked past the silent policemen, their eyes crawling up his spine as he followed, irrevocably associating himself with the cruelty leading him. They made their way into the tenement building and walked through the ill-lit vestibule to the work station set up in the back room where Lestrade was waiting for them.

“You'll need to wear one of these,” James said, pointing out the pile of chemical protection suits on the work table. To avoid contaminating a high-profile crime scene, presumably.

“Who's this?” Lestrade demanded, already sounding disapproving.

“He's with me,” James ordered.

“But who is he?” Lestrade growled back and Moriarty met his gaze, his dark stare digging into the detective's eyes.

“I said he's with me,” he ordered and the cop went silent.

“Arn't you going to put one on?” John asked, pulling on his suit. Neither the cop nor Moriarty answered. Right.

~~//~~

 

James circled around the body, making a show of checking the collar he'd dampened not two hours before. He'd been worried it would evaporate entirely but it was still tangibly moist. Not a particularly effective raincoat, for all its obvious expense. That was fortunate. Meeting and courting the doctor had demanded time out of the precious hours he'd allocated himself before the body's discovery.

He made sure Lestrade saw him check the woman's ring. Dirty, unlike the rest of her jewelery. Meaningless. People rarely took off their rings, regardless of their marital happiness, and friction kept the inside clean, but most of the idiots in the room wouldn't question him. Except for Dr. John Watson. Watson wasn't an idiot. James was still introducing Sherlock to the soldier; not a good time to be sloppy. Perhaps he wouldn't mention the ring, unless pressed.

Jennifer Wilson, forty six years old. A serial adulterer and the child molester no one noticed. No one was going to catch her and he hadn't been able to find any evidence to ensnare her that'd be safe for him to divulge. She was too smart for that and now too connected to his network. She was the victim of one of his blackmail schemes, who still wasn't smart enough to stop her crimes and now knew too much. The smart ones were dangerous but they made the perfect 'innocent victims' for Sherlock Holmes to avenge and they, if all went well, would solve the problem of Mr. Harold Yale - which would hopefully validate the mind-numbing task of carving 'rache' into the floor with a metal file and a dead woman's nails. That had certainly been on the psychotic side of 'thorough'.

“Got anything?” Lestrade asked hopefully.

“Not much,” James answered honestly, taking off his gloves.

“She's german,” Anderson pronounced. Her name was Jennifer Wilson and he thought she was _german?_ “Rache. German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something,” the man pontificated, lifting his newly gloved hands up to his mouth like that wasn't revolting.

“Yes, thank you for your input,” James replied, closing the door on the man while he pretended to check his phone. 'Sherlock Holmes at work' was always his favourite role to play, in all his brilliant absurdity.

“So she's German?” Lestrade asked while James opened a weather app on his phone just in case John Watson opened it later.

“Of course she's not. She's from out of town though. Intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious,” he bragged.

“Sorry, obvious?” John asked, looking dumbstruck.

“What about the message though?” Lestrade asked, not doubting him. That confidence was essential, established over years of working with the detective inspector, but it made James complacent. He was aware of way he'd begun to lapse, before Redbeard had appeared. He'd have to be careful not to rely on anything when John was nearby, at least for a few months.

“Dr. Watson, what do you think?” he demanded to keep the man's attention.

“Of the message?” John asked stupidly and James wanted to growl at him. But, of course, he reminded himself, Dr. Watson did not yet feel authorized to inspect the corpse between them. That would come in time.

“Of the body. You're a medical man,” James answered as patiently as he could.

“We have a whole team outside,” Lestrade pointed out.

_Shut up,_ James thought but did not say.

“They won't work with me,” he tossed out instead. Fairly true. True enough.

“I'm breaking every rule letting _you_ in here,” Lestrade complained.

_Enough power plays._ It was clearly making John uncomfortable.

“Yes, because you need me,” James stated and John watched as the detective regarded them silently, thinking.

“Yes, I do. God help me,” he admitted, looking at the floor.

_Unlikely._

“Dr. Watson!” James ordered sharply without pulling his eyes away from the detective inspector. John glanced between them with concern. No trust yet. That would have to change quickly, if he was to become an effective partner.

James had a problem no criminal could solve. There was a mole in his organization. There was no doubting it. Someone - close enough to the inside to know at least the entirety of the Taiwanese sector - was working with the police. No doubt working with his enemies as well. This was a delicate time.

Not a great time for major employee acquisitions. And yet.

James had been faced with a paradox; the perfect bodyguard for a dishonest man was an honest one; a loyal fighter who'd never take a bribe would never work for a dishonest man. He'd found a solution in Dr. John Watson; a man desperate to be useful and left rather out of work in a peaceful territory. Fortunately for them both, London wasn't one.

It was a damn good thing his alias could pass for a good man, albeit an eccentric one.

John knelt down beside the woman's body, lowering his useless cane with a clatter. He said nothing.

“Well?” James probed.

“What am I doing here?” he asked yet again. He was tenacious. James wasn't sure that was a good thing.

“Helping me make a point,” James lied.

“I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent,” John growled. Meaningless.

“Yeah, well, this is more fun,” James replied with honest enthusiasm.

“Fun? There's a woman lying dead,” the soldier scolded him. They were supposed to be bonding. He wasn't sure that it was working.

“Perfectly sound analysis but I was hoping you'd go deeper,” James joked. The soldier stared at him, unimpressed. Lestrade wandered back into the room.

_Damn._ They were running out of time before the next one of the man's power plays. And James had better lose this one. Not spectacular timing, but the silent pressure did succeed in pressuring the doctor to begin examining the dead Jennifer Wilson. It didn't take him long.

“Yeah. Asphyxiation, probably,” he said, struggling to his feet. “Passed out, choked on her own vomit.”

_Correct._

“Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure. Possibly drugs.”

_He knows he's in the serial suicide case and he stays unbiased. Smart._ He'd need smart and unbiased for a bodyguard and an alibi. Somebody people felt like they could trust.

“You know what it was, you've read the papers,” James prodded quietly.

“Well, she's one of the suicides. The fourth?” John asked, making it sound like he was asking for confirmation, looking only at James for it now. And of course, here came Lestrade's inevitable power play. 

“Sherlock, two minutes I said. I need anything you got.”

_And here we go,_ James thought. He always loved this bit, where things got dangerous.

“Victim is in her late 30s. Professional person, going by her clothes. I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink.”

He'd thought for two days and that was the best he'd been able to come up with. Irritating.

“Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase.”

That was the dangerous bit and Lestrade grabbed onto it immediately.

“Suitcase?”

“Suitcase, yes. She's been married at least ten years but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married.”

_Of course not. They were in secondary school._

“Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up...” Lestrade barked.

_Yes doubt me now. All that can be verified by doing your job._ He'd have to risk the ring deduction after all. Nothing for it.

“Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage, right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside, that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for her work, look at her nails – she doesn't work with her hands – so what, or rather who, does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple.”

Except that an astonishing number of adulterers didn't try to hide it much at all.

“Brilliant,” John said, sounding remarkably awed. And more notably, genuine. James couldn't help but preen. He enjoyed the praise and wanted to hear it again but instead the doctor apologized for interrupting.

“Cardiff?” Lestrade interrupted.

“It's obvious, isn't it?”

“It's not obvious to me,” John replied.

“Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains, it must be so boring!” James complained. Stupidly. He was trying to woo the soldier not point out all his glaring idiocy, even if it did mean dragging both men through all the layers of his plan, connecting it all like a child's paint-by-number. He even took out his phone to show the detective the weather report.

“Fantastic,” the doctor blurted again. James blinked. This was definitely more fun with a straight-man around. That was an unanticipated benefit. He'd been certain it'd infuriate him to add another layman to his crime scenes, to observe and be blind to all the intricate details he'd woven in. He should have thought to employ a cheerleader years ago.

“Do you know you do that out loud?” James asked and the doctor winced.

“Sorry, I'll shut up,” he promised and James found himself in the strange position of wanting to reassure someone.

“No, it's...fine,” he said, surprised at himself.

“Why do you keep saying suitcase?”

_Careful, careful._

“Yes, where is it?” James demanded immediately, pretending to look around. “She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is,” he muttered as if he hadn't rolled the half-empty thing in garbage that morning and stuffed it in his closet.

“She was writing Rachel?” Lestrade asked.

_Yes, focus on that. Something verifiable, carved into the damn floor. Not my knowledge of the victim's belongings beyond the crime scene._ He needed to be impressive to Dr. John Watson. _Believable,_ to John Watson.

“No, she was leaving an angry note in German,” James growled. “Of course she was writing Rachel, no other word it can be. Question is, why did she wait until she was dying to write it?”

That was clearly false.

_Rache: scent-based hunting dog._

_Rachetic: White stripe on a horse's face_

_Rachet_

_Rachelle_

It didn't matter. People never really thought more than they needed to, especially after he'd claimed it wasn't necessary.

“How did you know she had a suitcase?” Lestrade demanded. But he didn't sound suspicious and John's posture remained loose.

“Back of her right leg. Tiny splash marks on the right heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way.”

_Unless you paint it on._

“Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious, could only be an overnight bag so we know she was staying one night. Now where is it, what have you done with it?” he crouched by the body as he asked, pretending to inspect something on Jennifer's corpse.

“There wasn't a case,” Lestrade answered, practically on cue. James turned around and brought his eyes up to catch the man's as if the detective had just offered him the world on a string.

“Say that again,” he ordered.

“There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase,” Lestrade replied.

“Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase?” James shouted, laying it on thick as he shoved his way out of the room and down the stairs. “Was there a suitcase in this house?”

“Sherlock, there's no case!”Lestrade shouted after him, John following behind.

“But they take the poison themselves," James said, as if there was no chance the delinquents who'd found the body had stolen anything. If Lestrade didn't think of that, he wouldn't do it for him. “They chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them,” he ranted as he ran down the stairs.

“Right, yeah, thanks. And?” Lestrade asked. Lord, but the man's brain was becoming lazy, relying on 'Sherlock Holmes'. That was a good thing. Safer. But irritating.

“It's murder, all of them. I don't know how. But they're not suicides. They're killings, serial killings. We've got a serial killer. Love those. There's always something to look forward to,” he celebrated, moving quickly down the stairs. He had to go fetch that damn case but he loved this part, when all of the set up of his crime was complete and he got to reveal it all, bit by bit.

“Why are you saying that?” Lestrade complained.

“Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here and they took her case!” he shouted, before pausing dramatically. “So the killer must have driven here. Forgot the case was in his car,” he said quietly as if muttering deductions to himself.

“She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there,” John protested. Smart, to still be doubting him. Hopefully that wouldn't end too soon. He liked the challenge.

“No, she never got to the hotel, look at her hair,” he said to buy time. He had to back that up with..something. “She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking...” he said and stopped short. That was a damn good segue. He was getting better at this. And this was a very good day to have a good day. “Oh!” he gasped, backing up to smack against the wall behind him.

“Sherlock, what?” Lestrade called. James grinned.

“Serial killers, always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake,” he muttered. His phone buzzed; the cab company calling that his scheduled car had arrived.

“We can't just wait!” Lestrade yelled, clearly aghast at him.

“Oh, we're done waiting. Look at her, really look!” James yelled back. “Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff, find out who Jennifer Wilson family and friends were. Find Rachel!”

_Just do your job, don't watch me._

“Of course, yeah, but what mistake?” the detective shouted down after him. He really did wish they'd see his masterpiece for themselves.

“Pink!” he shouted back and ran out the door. He ran for the cab, knowing he'd have to get away before Dr. Watson tried to follow. He needed to be 'looking for the case' now, after all, and it fit Sherlock's character to disappear without a thought to the doctor's route home.

Brian stopped the cab in front of him on Harrison street and James ducked inside, already pulling a Crunchie bar out of his pocket as he closed the door. His heart fluttered in his chest. He was being an ass. It was a nerve-racking risk. Dr. Watson was almost a perfect fit for his needs; an exceptional field surgeon and an even better sniper. Men like that didn't get shot out of the army every day.

He'd never needed to make 'Sherlock Holmes' particularly sympathetic before, not for more than brief periods, and James had never been particularly well-liked himself, which left him at odds. He had to hope free rent and a war-zone were strong enough draws to offset living with him. But if it worked, his Sherlock Holmes persona would become well-solidified and 'Moriarty' would become a much more difficult man to identify. He'd live as a ghost within his 'nemesis', protected by a reputable, legally-minded doctor, and the Yard might finally begin to relax. James pulled himself out of the cabbie and started up the steps of 221B to pull the pink suitcase out of his closet and wait for the doctor to follow him.


	4. Chapter 4

 

  John worked his way down the tenement stairs, using the railing and his cane for support.

  _Did he do this?_ he wondered, picturing the genius scratching cryptic messages into a hardwood floor and cutting up the nails of his victim. It'd been a struggle to keep his composure upstairs, so suddenly struck by what he'd already known about James Moriarty but had forgotten in only a few minutes of laughter in a cab car.

  He limped out of the building, thoroughly annoyed about being left behind with the dead woman, having been dragged there for Christ-knew what reason in the first place.

  At the moment it didn't matter why. He was here and Moriarty was nowhere to be found.  Unsupervised, as soon as he'd wanted to be. John cursed under his breath. There was still a half-dozen police cars flashing their lights around the building, same as before. How had the man caught a cab out here?

  _That_ he definitely needed to find out immediately. He certainly wasn't walking home.

  _Damn it._ John sighed heavily, working his way over to the suspicious Sally Donovan, still standing guard over the taped-off street.

  “He's gone,” she called out.

  “Sherlock Holmes?” John guessed, wandering closer. It was a good time to meet her, really, away from Moriarty's watching eyes. She confirmed that James wasn't likely to come back.

“Right,” John answered. He was in the middle of suburbia. A cab was going to cost the rest of his food budget for the week. “Yes, sorry, where am I?” he asked, grabbing the detective's attention again.

  “Brixton.”

  _Fuck._

  “Uh... do you know where I could get a cab? It's just...uh...well...my leg..” John explained, hating every second of his stammering. Christ but he was desperate and she saw it.

  “Uh...try the main road,” she said, lifting the tape for him. _Figure it out,_ he read in the gesture.

  _Not very helpful._

“Thanks.”

  “But you're not his friend,” she called when he was moving away. “He doesn't have friends. So who are you?” she asked. John turned around. He had to gain Moriarty's trust before he risked anything. He needed solid evidence to present.

  “I'm … I'm nobody. I just met him,” he said and she stepped closer.

  “A bit of advice, then. Stay away from that guy,” she warned him.

  _Do you know something?_

“Why?”

  “You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing 'round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there,” she professed.

  _And you have no idea if today is that day,_ John filled in. Just a cop's hunch then. But he'd definitely found an ally.

  “Why would he do that?” he asked.

  “Because he's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored,” she answered, just as Lestrade called for her from the crime scene's building. “Coming!” she yelled, moving away. “Stay away from Sherlock Holmes,” she called back to him.

  So she wasn't afraid of Sherlock, not really, or she wouldn't antagonize him. She had nothing on him but a bad feeling. That was unfortunate. John continued walking toward the main road.

 

 

~~//~~

 

 

  James had a problem with an Armenian Sikh. Or more accurately, an Armenian Sikh had a problem with him. Five years before James had followed an international investigation into Jharkhand, knowing that where one sex trade ring was taken down another would rise to take its place - and with that disturbance came waves, confusion, changes of routine, mistakes. And where James could find a group of perverted men making mistakes, he could start a blackmail franchise.

  Blackmail was a dirty business. It served no one and dealt in fear.  
It was no professional’s business plan. Who was the customer? What longevity could it have?  
It was a parasite and a disgusting one.  
  James had a certain fondness for it. Some markets needed parasites to bring them down and blackmail was efficient, lucrative, nonviolent, and safe. He had thousands of such men – and occasional women – in his payroll, most of them too scared to act again, and that number was rising.

  But Jharkhand had been a problem.

  Davit Singh Petroyan was, on paper, a thirty eight year old Armenian lawyer, avid football fan and stockholder in two diamond mining corporations. In James' book he was director of one of the most rapidly growing child trafficking rings in Armenia, currently spreading to Azerbaijan. He was…particularly brutal. James had forced himself not to look at the pictures his contacts had uploaded for him. He'd seen enough of the kind.

  Davit was paying off his blackmailer. Consistently, almost _carelessly_ , unrepentant and unafraid. Behind the scenes, James knew the man was frantically scanning his contacts for moles, hoping to find the culprit who'd betrayed him. He'd never find her; James wasn't concerned. Adler was in Germany now. But James's victims were supposed to _stop,_ were supposed to become paranoid, guilt-ridden, off themselves or give up their crimes. Davit was never going to stop. Not until he was caught.

  Unfortunately for Davit, he was in one of James’ three intolerable markets:  
Sex slavery trafficking, child molestation - including the creation and distribution of child pornography,   
and, ironically, blackmail itself. There were three avenues for the dealers in these, an order of events that always resulted in a solution: blackmail until the perpetrators stopped- usually useful only on the demand-side; lifelong jail sentences in countries with few corruption buyouts; and assassination. Assassination was Harold Yale's specialty.

  He had a few trusted assassins who’d do business in Armenia. James fiddled with his pen, considering his options. He hadn’t tried law enforcement yet, but it was illegal in Armenia for the government to extradite any of its citizens, so Petroyan would have to be tried and detained there, but corruption was widespread in their court system. Petroyan could buy his way to a favorable sentencing.

  He could have him shot, of course, but that built up a reputation no one wanted to ally with. Bad for business, shooting one's contacts. Better to be subtle, give Petroyan a different enemy. Sherlock Holmes had to take him down, make a high-profile case the world would watch, and buy the judge as a contingency. He’d teach Mr. Singh Petroyan that his strong defenses would _crumble_ in Sherlock’s hands.

  Davit would never know his extortioner had so turned on him, but a savvy criminal paying attention could determine Sherlock Holmes was in Moriarty's pocket. They'd see the threat.

  Not a risk he wanted to take. Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty were to be kept as irrevocably _separate_ as possible. But, on very rare occasions, a criminal would not come to heel for James Moriarty, and Sherlock Holmes would save the idiot’s life.

  And there children involved. Very young children involved. James stared at his Tor Message.

  : **Petroyan spotted in contact with carrier service. Photographs attached. Please assist.:**

Almast "Diamond" Jharia. A local hero no one would ever know about, if Moriarty did his job right.

  He'd risked his life for months, gathering information, helping take his city's trafficking organizations down.

  But how the hell was Sherlock Holmes to catch wind of a Mr. Singh Petroyan? The connection had to look organic.

  He had less than an hour until John got back to the flat. Long enough to get across the city to send the Black Lotus his orders. They had contacts with friends in Yerevan, judging by their customer base.

  Miss Milena Vanlian was going to escape long enough to write a letter pleading with the British Government to intercede.

  Mycroft would test John Watson's integrity, or perhaps loyalty if any such sentiment had developed during their first day, and deposit the doctor conveniently back to 221B to finish this false case with the arrest of Harold Yale. James preferred integrity; it was harder to buy off. Loyalty wavered with sentiment.

  Harold Yale had been a serial killer for two years before James caught up with him and began providing him with specific targets. Now he took out some of the more revolting and elusive of James's 'unprosecutables'. The drug dealing college student, guilty of four murders - who'd already been kept from trial twice; the belligerent businessman who took his anger out on prostitutes - a crime no one was investigating; the millionaire head of a ponzi scheme preying on the very old and the very young; and now, Jennifer Wilson, the last of the run. Carefully timed to John Watson's release from physical therapy into the prohibitively expensive housing market of modern London. If his recruitment plan worked, which was looking gratifyingly likely, John Watson would soon move in as a full-time bodyguard and personal physician. A truly decent man, like no full-time crook could hire, and employed for free. An acquisition definitely worth the permanent retirement of Mr. Harold Yale. Unless John refused to bite. That would render the whole long farce a criminal waste of resources though at least he'd keep Harold on for at least a few more murders.

  **:Integrity:** Mycroft texted. James breathed through his teeth, dropping his finished letter and written orders into the mail bin outside King's Cross station, at once relieved and harried. He had not underestimated John Watson; the man had refused Moriarty's money and hadn't run away screaming after the always-dramatic intervention of Mycroft Holmes - which was good news, except John had apparently skipped half of Mycroft's speech, hadn't let himself be tempted, hadn't heard Mycroft's full offer, hadn't needed to. Commendable, of course, and he'd be pleased if it didn't mean John Watson was _currently on the way to his house._ He flagged Regan, currently driving a taxi in circles for him.

  James ran up the steps, aware how _awkward_ his story would become if John opened the door behind him and saw him coming in, _empty handed._ An outcome that was looking more and more likely the later it got.

  He'd only just opened the flat door when he heard Mycroft's limo pull up. James closed his eyes; trying to relax his body quickly. He'd cut it too close, inarguably. But John Watson had come back. As he'd guessed, the man had nerves of steel. James threw himself into the couch and exhaled in relief, pressing his hand into his nicotine patches, hoping to squeeze a last bit of juice out of them, listening to John pound up the stairs and pause in the doorway.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded, immediately aggressive. Not a fan of drug use, then. Predictable, but unfortunate.

  “Nicotine patch, helps me think,” James replied honestly. “Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work.”

  “It's good news for breathing.”

  Intolerable people, nonsmokers. James groaned.

  “Breathing? Breathing is boring,” he replied and John limped his way into the room.

  “Is that three patches?”

  James hoped his new flatmate was not always so 'concerned'. This would rapidly become too irritating to bear, mole in his organization or no. He'd rather be shot. At least that was quick.

  “It's a three-patch problem,” James lied, tenting his fingers beneath his chin to support his head.

  “Well,” John growled. “You asked me to come, I'm assuming it's important.”

  _How would you like to solve a crime?_ No, that wouldn't do. Too direct, too soon. It'd look designed.

  “Oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?”

  Much better.

  “My phone?” John parroted. James grimaced. Even a perfect bodyguard wouldn't be worth living with a parrot.

  “Don't wanna use mine; always a chance that my number will be recognized,” James explained. “It's on the website.”

  “Mrs. Hudson's got a phone,” John pushed back.

  _It's traceable._ But no, that'd sound creepy, coming from an ill-known detective just looking to send a text.

  “Yeah, she's downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn't hear,” James lied. Rather impossible for anyone to disprove that.

  “I was on the other side of London...” John bit out. Reasonable. But then, half the point of 'Sherlock Holmes' was for when reason couldn't explain a behavior. A certain dose of insanity was necessary.

  “There was no hurry,” James replied, trying to sound as polite as possible. John stayed silent and James held his breath, concerned he'd pushed the man too far too fast. This was a soldier with pride – he'd be perfectly capable of walking out of here and fending for himself. Finally, John sighed and wrestled his phone from his pocket.

  “Here,” he offered and Sherlock held out his hand in an awkward position by his own upturned face. John smacked the mobile into it.

  “So what's this about? The case?”

  “Her case,” James muttered.

  “Her case?” John parroted. Yes, that was definitely going to get annoying.

  “Her suitcase, yes, obviously,” James said, pretending to snap awake. “The murderer took her suitcase, first big mistake.”

  “Okay, he took her case. So?”

  “It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it,” James muttered inanely. “On my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text,” James said, offering the phone back.

  “You've brought me here to send a text.”

  Yes, that didn't sound likely. But he'd gone this far and he'd had no other way to draw him back. Could have stolen John's wallet, texted him that'd he'd left it in the flat, but he needed him to expect 'Sherlock Holmes' to be irrational, aloof, unpredictable. And this had only taken two minutes of inane parroting. A cheap cost. If John took the phone.

  “Text, yes. The number on my desk.”

  And because Dr. John Watson was apparently a very tolerant man, he took the phone. James exhaled slowly, relieved. This was the least established part of his plan; how to drag the doctor step by step through his carefully designed murder case, until the man's curiosity and taste for danger took hold. John wandered over to the window, the flip phone enclosed in his hand. Not especially promising.

  “What's wrong?” James asked.

  “Just met a friend of yours,” John commented.

  “A friend?” Sherlock blurted, concern sharp in his voice. What in the hell had Mycroft admitted to?

  “An enemy,” John clarified.

  “Oh. Which one?” James asked, trying to recover.

  “Well, your arch-enemy, according to him. Do people have arch enemies?” John mocked. Rightfully, in all truth. Mycroft always had been over-the-top. It was a blessing they hadn't been trapped by it yet. But then, Mycroft did considerably less lying in his day to day life.

  “Did he offer you money to spy on me?” James asked. His second test, easily initiated. That was convenient.

  “Yes,” John admitted simply. Very good. His face had barely moved, his eyes flickering over to meet James' gaze for the briefest moment. He nodded, emphasizing his answer.

  “Did you take it?” James asked quietly. That of course was the vital question. Though John Watson would not be standing in this living room if he'd had Mycroft's money in his pocket. He needed to know what it looked like when John Watson told the truth under pressure.

  John blinked, processing his question. James waited for a prideful outburst but John only paused, his lips forming the word 'who' before he rethought asking. Reconsidered…why? Probably irrelevant. Mycroft scared off most candidates. It was quite intentional. No surprise John didn't ask about him now.

  “No,” John answered seriously, unoffended by the question. Perfect.

  “Pity, we could have split the fee. Think it through next time,” James scolded. John smiled, looking as amused by the concept as James was. James pitched his fingers under his chin to stifle a self-pleased smirk.

  _Stay in character._

  “Who is he?” the doctor asked. Ah, not too scared after all. Better and better. James was beginning to agree with Mycroft's assessment: _this is a tightly self-controlled man who thrives on risk._ Mycroft always could read a man from a background check and a photograph.

  _Up the ante. Up the thrill._

  “The most dangerous man you've ever met and not my problem right now. On my desk, the number!” James bit out. And to his great relief, John obeyed.

  _Now we can get started._

  “Jennifer Wilson. That was...hang on. Wasn't that the dead woman?” John probed, reading the scrawled note easily.

  _More clever than average. Move him faster._

“Yes, that's not important. Just enter the number. Are you doing it?” James hurried him.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you done it?” James checked. This was supposed to look urgent. It wasn't particularly easy to make a text exchange dramatic.

  “Yeah...hang on!” John barked.

  “These words exactly. What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come.”

  “You blacked out?”

  Okay, so he wasn't _that_ clever. That was good. Much safer for everyone involved.

  “What?  No...no! Type it and send it. Quickly,” Sherlock ordered, swinging to his feet. He had his soldier hooked now. He crossed to the kitchen and plucked the pink case from the dining chair he'd left it on. The game was on.

  “Have you sent it?” he pressed, excited now.

  “What's the address?”

  Definitely not that clever. He was right again; Dr. Watson was the perfect accomplice.

  “22 Northumberland Street. Hurry up!”

 

~~//~~

 

  John's thumb hovered over the 'send' button. If he was not very much mistaken, which he doubted, his new flatmate had just produced a dead woman's luggage from the middle of their kitchen. Somehow he hadn't thought the 'consulting criminal's' crimes would be so blatant. He'd thought he'd be sneaking into the man's financial paperwork, not staring at damning evidence before he even had a key to the flat.

  “That's the pink case, that's Jennifer Wilson's case,” John choked out. He was going to be an accomplice to murder if he didn't report it immediately.

  Oh this man was cruelly brilliant. What would happen, if he reported this? Surely Moriarty wouldn't show him something truly dangerous. But if he said nothing – what then? How implicated would he become before he had enough evidence to bring Moriarty to justice? Was that his plan – to pray he'd turn Moriarty in before the police caught up with them, and then pray for immunity for all he'd done and not done? This undercover job was beginning to feel like a boa constrictor, already wrapping around him, before it'd even started.

  “Yes, obviously,” Moriarty tossed out. John stared. James Moriarty tore his eyes away from his suitcase, visibly annoyed. “Oh, perhaps I should mention, I didn't kill her,” he grumbled.

  “I never said you did,” John replied carefully.

  “Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case it's a perfectly logical assumption.”

  _Shit._ That was true.

  “Do people usually assume you're the murderer?” John asked. He could see it going either way, really. People were gullible. Sherlock grinned, evidently enjoying his discomfort.

  “Now and then, yes,” he admitted. John found himself subtly encouraged to be one of the wiser few, smart enough to see through the chaff to the innocent and misunderstood detective beneath.

  Oh, this man was dangerous.

  “Okay... How did you get this?” John winced on his way to sit down and Sherlock grimaced, looking more annoyed by his injury than by his question. Which perhaps made sense, given the man's intellect. Very few people, even well-established doctors, had any respect for psychosomatic pain.

  And Moriarty likely enjoyed spinning lies.

  “By looking.”

  Perhaps not the most intricate of lies.

  “Where?”

  “The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention to themselves, particularly a man, which is statistically more likely. So obviously, he'd felt compelled to get rid of it. The moment he noticed he still had it - wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip.”

  _Absurd._ John had left an umbrella to mold in his trunk for days and Sherlock Holmes could calculate the minutes it would take for a stranger to remember a suitcase? But of course, without that constraint, a whole team of police would have little chance at all of locating Jennifer Wilson's baggage in the city.

  “Pink. You got all that because you realized the case would be pink?” he fumbled.

  “Well it had to be pink, obviously,” Moriarty scoffed.

  _Not what I asked._

“Why didn't I think of that?” John grumbled sarcastically.

  “Because you're an idiot,” Moriarty replied. By his tone, he'd meant it honestly. John blinked, both legitimately offended and surprised by the emotion. He'd hardly expected the criminal to be polite.

  “No, no, no, don't look like that. Practically everyone is,” Moriarty added. John blinked again. Within two seconds the man had been both ruder and more charismatic than he'd ever expected. Nothing he'd imagined from the title 'consultant criminal' had played out predictably, except perhaps the close relationship to a homicide detective. Perhaps he was better off pretending to be daft.

  “Now, look. Do you see what's missing?” Moriarty drew his attention back to the case.

  “From the case? How could I?” Stupid was definitely the way to go. If it all went to court he could say he'd been duped by the madman – like everyone had.

  “Her phone. Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one. That's her number there. You just texted it.”

  _I just – of course I just texted a murdered woman a cryptic message about her death._ Moriarty had roped him in so swiftly he was still reeling.

“Maybe she left it at home,” John suggested, blinking dumbly.

  “She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home.”

  _Bullshit again._ And yet he couldn't tell the lie by the tone at all. It was incredible.

  _Daft. I have to play this entirely daft._

  “Uh...” John started before spinning around. “Why did I just send that text?” He sounded frightened even to his own ears. He was not nearly so skilled a liar- but at least this time his emotions fit. Anyone would be scared.

  “Well, the question is: where is her phone now?” Moriarty said, resting his elbows on his knees.

  “She could have lost it,” John offered, not sure how he was supposed to respond to James Moriarty having him text a serial killer. His heart was pounding.

  “Yes, or?” Sherlock prompted.

  “The murderer...you think the murderer has the phone?” John said and he sounded perfectly horrified.

  “Maybe she left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone.”

  John stared off into space, figuring that just _contemplating_ this situation would have him looking quite appalled enough.

  “Sorry...what are we doing? Did I just text a murderer? What good will that do?” he started, only to be cut off by the perfectly-timed ringing mobile phone.

  _Why in the hell would a murderer call back?_

  “A few hours after his last victim and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they'd ignore a text like that but the murderer...the murderer would panic,” Moriarty announced, flipping the suitcase closed with a dramatic flourish.

  _Or a stranger would call to say 'oy, I found a phone_ _…'_

James got up and began pulling on his suit jacket and coat, clearly planning to go out.

  “Have you talked to the police?” John asked, unsure if he hoped for it or not. He liked to hope Scotland Yard was not overly trusting of this man but at least if the police knew about the suitcase already then John couldn't be blamed for hiding it from them.

  “Four people are dead; there isn't time to talk to the police.”

  “So why are you talking to me?” John demanded.

  _None of this makes sense._ Moriarty was clearly involved in this murder as more than a 'detective' – he'd never have the suitcase otherwise. But unless he was carefully framing someone – and had killed the four victims himself to do so – what did he gain in solving a case he'd arranged? And why drag John along?

  _I'm being roped in._ Just as the informant had promised. Was that all this was for -- four dead victims and a framed 'killer' – to capture John's interest?

  And if so, what did James Moriarty want him as – a sharpshooter or a doctor?

  John swallowed heavily, unsure if he was going to be able to play undercover sheriff after all.

  “Mrs. Hudson took my skull,” James answered, holding the front door open.

  _What?_

  “So I'm basically filling in for your skull?” John sputtered. That was hardly flattering.

  “Oh relax, you're doing fine,” Sherlock reassured him.

  _Insane._ The man was utterly insane.

  “Well?” Sherlock called.

  “Well what?” John growled, gripping his cane. He rather felt like beating the man with it until he confessed, delivering him and the damned pink suitcase to the closest homicide unit, and being done with it all.

  “Well, you could just sit there and watch telly,” Sherlock grumbled, pulling on his thin coat.

  “What, you want me to come with you?” John asked, praying the man would say yes. He wanted _answers._ Evidence. And to be done with Mr. Moriarty's criminal schemes.

  “I like company when I go out and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention. So…”

  John smiled. The man would have him believe he had walked around town holding up a human skull, muttering to it? And disturbingly enough, John couldn't be sure he hadn't.

  “Problem?” Sherlock asked.

_He's only feigning madness._

  “Yeah, Sergeant Donovan,” John started. Moriarty scowled.

  “What about her?”

  “She said...you get off on this. You enjoy it,” John accused.

  “And I said 'dangerous' and here you are,” Moriarty replied, his deep voice cutting.

  He left then, for John to follow or not. John fiddled with his cane, listening to his pulse pound in his ears, his kidnapper's words running down his spine. He couldn't deny it, his heart was racing in _excitement,_ not fear.

  “Damn it!” he cursed and pushed himself up on his painful leg to rush after the man. Moriarty was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. He smiled smugly, seeing John limp his way down, and threw open the front door for them.

  “Prick,” John grumbled and Moriarty grinned and locked the door behind them.

  They took Baker Street station to Charing Cross and Moriarty led them up to the Strand. It was late enough that the bars were raging and the restaurants were emptying. A good time to go unnoticed walking outside.

  “Where are we going?” John asked, though he could guess.

  “Northumberland Street's a five minute walk from here,” Moriarty confirmed.

  “You think he's stupid enough to go there?” John scoffed.

  _Of course; you told him to. And I texted him the damn address. Surely you won't let us catch him, so where does this farce end? When we catch the man and I'm endlessly impressed and move in?_ John almost missed a step, walking at Moriarty's side, only then realizing that if they were halfway through framing an innocent man for serial murder he'd need to catch Moriarty with something damning before the case was over.

_I should have reported the suitcase._

“No, I think he's brilliant enough,” Sherlock corrected. “I love the brilliant ones. They're all so desperate to get caught.”

  _Is that why you do this?_

“Why?” John probed.

  “Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, John. It needs an audience.”

  John struggled not to snarl. He didn't think he'd quite kept to the 'bland idiot' expression he'd been maintaining. What a horrendous reason. But it was the fraud's true motivation, John was sure of it. There'd been a glint of mania in the man's words, a _need._ To show off. The man set up crimes that'd never be noticed and invented a 'genius' detective to catch him in controlled circumstances.

  That's why he'd planted the damn suitcase – for Sherlock Holmes to find it. A whole circus act all his own and Scotland Yard was both his trained monkey and his captive audience.

  Brilliant. And almost hilarious, really, except that four people had been killed for it. As props, by the looks of it. Appalling.


End file.
